


Feathers, Ink, and Fantasies

by Mae_Crowe



Category: Maximum Ride - James Patterson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bird/Human Hybrids, F/M, Fang and Max met before, Fang is supposed to have forgotten, Fang the Artist, Human Fang, Immorality, Jeb is not evil, Max the Muse, Memory Loss, Memory Restoration, Oneshot, POV Fang, POV Third Person, immoral tactics, implied reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mae_Crowe/pseuds/Mae_Crowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fang is an introverted mess, never thinking to express his emotions in any outward form. To cope, he finds himself drawing detailed pictures of a winged girl that seems to surface out of nowhere in his imagination. As his emotional problems heighten, he finds himself falling in love with a girl who cannot possibly exist... Until, suddenly, she can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers, Ink, and Fantasies

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fanfiction as a birthday present for a friend to print out and give to her to help fuel her love of Fang and the Maximum Ride books, the only books I think she has ever truly liked. I have decided to share it with the rest of you, though be warned that it is by no means beta'd, so mistakes are quite possible. Enjoy! :)

He wasn’t quite sure where she sprang from. Sure, he used his imagination for countless drawings and sketches, but this girl… How was his mind capable of fathoming something so flawless, something so beautiful?

Fang smiled softly at the image in his notebook, rubbing his thumb over the smooth lines of his muse. She was absolutely perfect, in more ways than one. He imagined her to be caring and concerned, yet rough and tough around the edges, always up for a challenge, practically unable to back down. If his muse were real, she would be strong and independents, wit and sarcasm endearing her to him. And most importantly, she’d love him. Despite her jagged edges, she’d love him and only him.

Letting out a sigh of disappointment that she was not, could not be real, Fang instead fixed his gaze on the various certificates adorning his walls, blue and red ribbons for countless art competitions entered and won. And yet, the name on the certificates was not his own.

Finnick Black.  Fang scoffed at the name. What was his mother thinking? Mind, she had only been a druggie of a teenager when he was born, but seriously. Finnick? What kind of name is that, anyway? Although, he admits to himself wryly, his self-granted nickname isn’t very socially acceptable. Most people seem to assume he’s part of a gang whenever he introduces himself, even more so when they catch a glimpse of the black wings tattooed at the base of his neck, on his upper back. It was just art, he’d tell them when they put him down for having a tattoo -- the kids at his stuffy private school really didn’t approve -- and art is nothing but beauty.

The irony struck as he realized his train of thought had visited his mother’s difficult past and his own too easy present in a manner of seconds. He was proud of his mother; she got herself clean when he was very young, and she resisted any kind of addiction since. Furthermore, she had somehow persuaded him to apply for a scholarship for a private high school with the intents of giving him a brighter future than she was ever offered. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but once Fang had been admitted into the school, he quickly realized the environment was by no means appealing to him. All the same, for the sake of his mother and the only family he had, he was content to struggle through the years of difficulty. She deserved as much.

Eyes fluttering down to the girl in his sketchbook once again, Fang frowned slightly as stern eyes looked up at him. His muse was in battle mode, fists clenched and hair pulled up, a set of wings spread grandly out behind her. He gave her a small smile before turning from the finished picture to a more recent addition to his collection, an addition that showed her in a much softer light. And she wasn’t alone.

His muse’s eyes were not fixed on the piece’s viewer, but instead on a young man standing alongside her. Her eyes were soft as they smiled at each other, two sets of wings creating a feathery cocoon around them. Fang looked at the young man in the picture and sighed wistfully. He had never truly had a reason to give anyone the expression his drawn self was giving his muse. He had never been drawn to any one person, not in the way he imagined he be drawn to her if only she were real, the way he was drawn to her even though she was not. She was his time and adoration, she was his obsession and the love of his life. And she wasn’t even real.

“Of everything in my life, you are my maximum,” he whispered to the page, not feeling odd at all about saying it as he smiled softly down at her. “You are everything to me.”

With that said, he put his pen to paper and began to trace over the faint pencil lines.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

Several hours later, a knock on Fang’s door jolted him out of his reverie. Capping his pen and placing it as a page marker in his sketchbook, he frantically shoved the notebook aside. “Come in,” he called smoothly, voice not giving way to his brief bout of internal panic.

The door opened, and Fang’s mother smiled at him tensely, hazel eyes creased with worry and black hair askew. He frowned, uncertain as to why she seemed so unkempt all of a sudden. But before he could say anything, she was already speaking.

“Nicky, there’s some people here to see you,” she said softly, and Fang instantly understood. Much like himself, his mother didn’t always enjoy the company of others, and the sudden appearance of strangers was sure to cause anxiety to some degree. “They say they work for one of those art councils you send your stuff into and wanted to make an inquiry. Will you see them?”

Fang frowned to himself, brow creasing. Why would they come chase after him, especially in person? Why hadn’t they just sent him an email or called? Wouldn’t that have been more efficient? All the same, he was curious, so he just gave his mom a silent nod in response before following her out into the apartment’s sitting room.

A woman with long, fashionably silver hair stood up, peering at him from behind a pair of black metal-rimmed glasses. She wore a tidy black pantsuit, nails painted red and shaped in perfect ovals. Her heels caused her to tower over even him, an unnaturally lanky specimen of almost six feet, and she did not appear approachable by any means. But approach she did, stick out a perfectly manicured hand as she did so.

“You must be Finnick Black,” she quipped, a stern formality to her voice. “I’m Marian Janssen, and I’m the director for the International Art Council for Youth and Amateur Discovery. You sent a piece into one of our outposts for a contest a few months back, and we were more than intrigued by your work.”

“T-Thank you,” Fang managed to stutter out. Janssen’s words didn’t really feel like praise, even if they were intended to be. His eyes flickered to a graying, brown-haired man of wiry form and with circular silver-metal glasses that almost seemed too small for his face. This man gave his a genuine smile, which Fang acknowledged with a brief nod. Janssen didn’t seem to notice as she went on.

“My colleague, Mr. Batchelder, and I here to pursue the possibility of inducting you to our Rising Artists Division.” She pursed her lips. “We sent a letter many weeks ago, but you mother has brought it to my attention that you never received it. My sincere apologies in that regard; steps are being taken so such a mistake will never happen again.” She turned on her heel to look at the man sitting on the couch. “Mr. Batchelder? Will you please accompany Mr. Black to his workspace for further investi-” She coughed suddenly. “I mean, for further analysis.”

Fang’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, feeling as though something was off. The request in itself was innocent enough, and Mr. Batchelder seemed approachable enough, but…

“Okay,” he said finally, turning without another word, assuming Mr. Batchelder would follow. The man did so and was soon pacing around Fang’s room, eyes flickering from watercolor to drawing to oil paint every second.

“You’ve got some nice work in here,” he complimented with a smile, turning back to Fang once more. Fang shrugged, not sure of what to say, when Mr. Batchelder caught a glimpse of his sketchbook. Fang’s eyes flew wide open as the man reached for it.

“No!” he hollered, tugging it away and cradling it defensively. “I can’t let you look at that. It’s private.”

Mr. Batchelder gave him a steady look. “Surely it’s nothing you can’t share with me,” he said steadily. “And besides that, personal work is always the biggest testimony to what kind of artist you are. This sketchbook could make the difference between being inducted or having just been considered briefly.”

That’s what I’m afraid of,  Fang sulked, though he handed over the sketchbook reluctantly. Mr. Batchelder smiled at him before going to flip through the pages. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes fell upon the first picture of the winged girl, but he recomposed himself so quickly Fang put it off as a trick of the light.

Finally, Mr. Batchelder paused on a drawing of the girl in-flight, looking up at Fang questioningly. “Who is she, Finnick?” he asked quietly. “What is her significance?”

Fang couldn’t help but soften at that question. “She’s my muse,” he responded softly. “My life, my everything, my maximum.”

The single word caused alarm to cross Mr. Batchelder’s face, deeming him completely uncomposed. “You remember her name?” he sputtered, shock in his eyes. “But the serum… You shouldn’t…” He shook his head quickly, not noticing the shocked look on Fang’s face. “I will drop all pretenses now, Fang --  and yes, I know what you call yourself. It’s what  she  calls you, too.”

“Who?” Fang asked, not quite following. To his complete surprise, Mr. Batchelder pointed down at the notebook.

“Her,” he answered, stressing the pronoun. “Maximum Ride. The girl you now call your muse. A girl you had erased from your memory almost two years ago for your own safety.” He shook his head, clearly worried. “No one’s supposed to know the hybrids exist, you know. You and my Max met by chance, and she seemed to take a liking to you. But your relationship put the both of you in danger and now…” Mr. Batchelder’s face turned green. “We need to get you out of here. Janssen can’t be allowed to know you still remember Max, and trust me, she’ll find out. We need to get you out of here.”

Fang stared at the man incredulously, unable to grasp what was going on. “With all due respect, Mr. Batchelder, you can’t be suggesting-”

“Call me Jeb,” the man interrupted suddenly. “And you don’t understand; being the director for an art council is just a cover. We came on a routine investigation to ensure the serum was still holding. And it should’ve been, but it seems…” He gestured to the notebook wordlessly.

“My memory of her is coming back,” Fang finished in awe, and somehow, it made sense. “I just started drawing her about nine months back. How much longer do you think it will be until…?” He drifted off, not quite knowing how to finish the question, but luckily, Jeb seemed to understand.

“I can’t be sure; this had never happened before. But if Janssen finds out, you’ll be stolen away from your home for testing while she tries to strengthen the dosage and make you forget. If you’re lucky, she’ll just have her assassins kill you and save you the torture. And then she’ll go for Max, and I can’t have that happen.”

“So what do I--”

** “Pack your bags. I can lie to Janssen. Just be ready to leave at five o’clock sharp tomorrow. I think it’s about time you were reunited with your Maximum.”   
**

**Author's Note:**

> So... "Finnick Black." If you're wondering where I got that from, does anyone remember how Max accidentally almost forgot to use Fang's fake name, and Iggy made fun of her by deciding to call Fang "Fnick?" That's where I got it! Black is pretty self-explanatory, but I just had to point out my motives for the first name. cx Hope you enjoyed! <3


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